This Was Everything I Have Ever Wanted And More. The Best Bday Present I Couldve Ever Gotten, Im Genuinely

This was everything I have ever wanted and more. The best bday present I could’ve ever gotten, I’m genuinely in love with you and this FIC!!! 🫶🫶

cheers to falling short

WARNINGS: dark!rafe cameron, DUB/NON-CON SMUT, drinking

Tags: reader and rafe are newlyweds, housewife kink, hate sex, breeding kink if u squint

Summary: rafe stands you up on your birthday l wc: 3.3k

Notes: this is for my sweet riri, ily and happy belated birthday @proactivetypaperson♡

!!! 18+ ONLY !!! AGELESS BLOG's & MINOR's who like/reblog/interact with this post WILL get BLOCKED to be unblocked send an ask to @prairiesrecs

The clicks of your heels reverberate throughout the foyer as you ease down the steps. You glance at your phone and curse to yourself. It’s thirty minutes past the time he’d told you to be ready. 

You didn't really do anything today- well atleast nothing outside of your norm- therefore you had no excuse to be late. Yet here you were. 

Like always, you had started the day off with making breakfast. 

The early meal was more for your husband than for you. He loved when you made him meals, and you loved making them for him. Every morning you’d get up a little earlier than him, if he’d let you out of bed, and you’d make him whatever he wanted. 

This particular morning, as you were scrambling his eggs, he came to you in a rush. He held two different color ties in his hand. One plain and one patterned.

“I need you.” He huffed, visibly flustered “Which one goes better with this suit? I- I can't decide.” 

With no hesitation you had chosen the plain one. The deciding factor being how it complimented his eyes. Like every other morning, you tied it for him only today he was… fidgety as you did so. His heightened nerves were over this deal he was aiming to secure. He had told you previously that if everything went right it would make him, and you in turn, a “shit ton of money”. 

You didn't necessarily understand why he was so keen on the deal considering how you guys already live way above your means. You were curious, but you didn't probe. He takes care of the money, he knows best. 

In that moment, you had smoothed your hands against his chest and told him, “You’re going to do great babe. You’re gonna secure this deal and then we’ll celebrate tonight. Together.” you tippy toed to kiss him, “With whatever secret you have planned for me” you smirked.

Prior to this, Rafe had told you to be ready for him in the evening. Specifically, to be ready at 8 pm. The only details he gave you were that it was for your birthday. The rest of the morning he was evasive as ever when it came to your questions about his plans.

After a lengthy goodbye kiss and some extra words of affirmation, you sent him on his way. You had spent most of the day cleaning up the house, responding to happy birthday wishes, and wondering what exactly Rafe had set out for the evening. 

At two o’clock you found yourself waiting to hear from your husband. Around his lunch he would usually call or text you to simply check in. Today however, he didn’t. 

You tried not to give it much thought, assuming that he was just super busy with his work thing. He did say that the negotiation was happening later in the day… and for that reason you didn't call him or reach out to him. You didn't want to distract him, or worse interrupt him. Especially if the meeting had already started. You were sure that he’d call you whenever he had the time. 

The day had gone on and you still hadn’t heard anything from him. Instead of worrying though, you kept yourself distracted with mundane tasks around the house. When the evening rolled around you settled on getting ready for your outing.

Your dress was easy to pick out. 

Mainly because it showcases your figure well, while still having an elegant essence to it. It’s also a dress that Rafe loves on you. Every time you wear it he can hardly keep his hands off of you. No matter the time or place.

The culprit behind your current tardiness was your hair. The original style you planned didn't turn out the way you wanted. So you had to think of something else, which took up more time than you expected..

You strut into the living room fully expecting Rafe to be sitting in the armchair with his legs spread, impatiently checking the time. To your surprise though, he’s not there. 

Your lips turn into a pout as you acknowledge your phone screen. 8:34 pm. 

The deal probably took longer than he anticipated. He wouldn't miss this. In fact he was probably on his way home right now. Likely speeding down the highway.

Thirty minutes had passed since you assumed he was on his way. Upon your wait, you cracked open a bottle of white wine, poured yourself a glass, and sat on the couch. Cheers huh? 

Time ticked on as you awaited his late arrival. One glass turned into two, then three. Then at one point you just stopped going back into the kitchen to refill the glass. Instead you brought the bottle with you to the couch and drank it straight from the spout. Eventually the alcohol broke your barriers down, and your true feelings seeped in. 

You were irritated and more importantly fed up, not caring anymore if you would be disturbing him. 

When you dialed him, it rang a couple times then went to voicemail. Immediately after you tried again, and instead of ringing that time it went straight to voicemail. The hell? 

You sent him a slew of texts afterward. 

The way that they noted ‘delivered’ confirmed to you that at least his phone wasn't dead. Which somewhat only pissed you off more, considering that he hadn't yet responded to you. Even with your anger though, you were still hopeful that he’d show up and fulfill his promise. Or at least that he’d do something to make today feel special for you.

At some point he did respond, “I’m running late, but I’ll be there.” The text was vague, but at least he was ok.

Even more time had passed since he responded. So much that you were now tired and completely wasted. Waiting felt like a lost cause. So much that you ended up calling it a night once the large wine bottle ran empty. 

Full of anger and irritation you stumbled up the stairs, drunkenly muttering some not so nice things about your husband. 

“What an asshole” you sneered, as you utilized the rail for support.

You hadn't even bothered trashing the wine bottle that sits empty in the living room. He could clean it up whenever he gets home. That was if he’d even notice. Truth was that you would likely have to do it tomorrow, but you didn't want to think about it. You just wanted to go to bed.

Red bottom heels dangle from your fingertips as you stand outside of your open bedroom door. You ponder it for a second, then grunt. Instead of walking inside, you make a not so steady beeline to one of the guestrooms down the hall. Fuck him.

You shut the door behind you, and glance at the clock that sits in the corner of the room. 11:36 pm. Fuckkkkk him! 

You don't bother with turning the light on as you stumble closer to the bed, "You're gonna love it baby” You mumble to yourself, childishly mocking Rafe and the words that he’d said earlier in the day.

You reach to your back and momentarily wrestle with your zipper. You come out triumphant and slip out of the soft material. Letting it pool at your feet. Next to go were your matching undergarments.  

How dare he? No, how could he? Rafe had missed dates before, but it hurt exceptionally more today because it was your birthday.

You scoff as you pull the neatly tucked sheets from their place. It would have been one thing if he told you that something came up or if something happened, but instead he practically screened you. All day at that! The thought of him makes you feel hot, and not in a good way. 

If he thinks that he can treat you like this, then come home to sleep in the same bed as you… he would have to be out of his mind. He can sleep alone in the master bedroom for all you care. It’s better anyways that you slept here. His scent alone on the sheets and pillows would have sent you into a fit of rage.

Your mind raced, as you laid there. You were upset, angry, sad, and disappointed. It all eventually brought you to tears, which resulted in you crying yourself to sleep. Alone and drunk, on your birthday.

The sound of a distant crash startles you from your slumber. The loud noise sounded as if a heavy figurine was knocked over. Being that you’re somehow still intoxicated, your mind goes to the worst. What if it’s an intruder?

“Baby? You down here?” you hear an all too familiar voice call from downstairs. You throw your head back into the pillow, thinking that you’d prefer the intruder. 

You turn onto your side, facing the direction of the door. You lay there, eyes open, thinking to yourself. Awaiting for his realization. You focus on the sounds of him trekking through the house, knowing that it wouldn't be long before he discovered you here. 

He calls your name, again and again, and you just stare off at the wall. Your gaze shifts to the door and to how the light beneath it darkens with a shadow.

“Where the hell are you?” his voice dragged, as he stood just outside the door. He sounded worried along with something else but you couldn't quite place it.

The sound of your phone ringing on the bedside table snaps you out of your daze. It was the specific ringtone you had for Rafe and without hesitation, you close your eyes and pretend as if you’re sleeping. You’d love to chew him out, but you were genuinely exhausted. You didn't want to deal with him tonight. He can grovel for your forgiveness in the morning.

The door creaked open.

“y/n? Are you in here….” His voice trailed off towards the end, probably at the discovery of your ‘sleeping’ frame. You hadn't missed the way his words blended into each other, resemblant of a slur.

The sound of his steps are heavy, unsteady even, as he nears you. His footsteps halt near the bed, leaving the room silent for a brief moment. The faint crumpling of plastic then fills the space. Whatever it is, he sets it on the bedside table before cursing to himself, voice all breathy. 

His large hand gently connects with your face and his thumb moves to softly rub your cheek. 

“You’re this upset huh?” He sniffles, “Yeah. I guess I fuckin deserve it.”

It became apparent to you quickly that he was drunk. Why was fucking drunk?? Maybe he was even high too from the way he was repeatedly sniffing.

His lips press against your cheek, then to your lips. When he pulls away you think that maybe he’s going to leave you alone. That maybe he realized it was in his best interest to let you be. 

You then hear some ruffling sounds, and associate the noise with shifting weight. Was he picking up your clothes?

A cold gust of air rushes you, as the covers suddenly disappear from your body. The chill is fleeting though, dissipating when his rather hot skin presses up against yours. You gasp, at the feel, unable to pretend you were asleep anymore. 

“What the-” Your words are cut short when his lips engulf yours. 

His hand practically cradles your jaw in his grasp as he attacks your lips with his. Your eyes widen at his behavior, and you instinctively press your hand to his muscular chest. The movement hardly does much to deter him, but you're able to pull away from him.

His eyes are half lidded and his lips are parted, desperate and wanting, as you stare at him in awe.

“Get off” you sneer out of disgust. He not only reeks of liquor but he tastes like it too. How the hell did he even drive home like this?

“Relax.” He coos as he caresses your jaw. There’s this intense look in his eyes when he continues, “It’s me.” 

“I know that.” You tut, “And I don't care. Get out.”

You were now upset for more than a few reasons. He was visibly fucked up, he blew you off to get like this, and on top of it all he drove home like this!

“You’re mad… I- I’m sorry alright?” He blinked slowly, “The investors took the deal- and they wanted to get drinks- and we- I lost track of time… and-”

“I don’t want to hear it” you snap, “Get out, and leave me alone.”

“I’m sorry…” He leans in to kiss you, as if that were to make things better. You tilt your head away evading his lips, and he rolls his eyes back into his head. “I’ll make it up to you. Look I promise.” 

He tugs your head back in his direction and presses his lips to yours. You whine, out in protest but he doesn't care. His hand moves to your shoulder, and roughly nudges you so that you now lay on your back. His lips never leave yours as he positions himself between your legs. 

With his movements, you feel his hard member press up against your inner thigh. It makes you gasp which only grants him access to your tongue. He swirls his against yours, overpowering you with the tastes of liquor and desperation. When his head moves to burrow between your neck and shoulder his breath fans against your clavicle.

“Let me start making it up to you now, hm?” His words sprout goosebumps along your skin. 

Your focus drifts, when his member lines up with your slit. The initial connection makes you feel tingly. Then when his hips start to slowly grind against yours, pleasure begins to seep in. 

His lips are relentless against yours, as his tip now glides effortlessly along your clit. The feel has a slight rush going to your head, while your core clenches needily at nothing.  

It was embarrassing that you were physically responding to him like this. Even mad at him, he had an affect on you. Your body had practically given in to him, but you surely weren't going to allow him the verbal or emotional satisfaction along with it.

“Rafe seriously get off.”

“Relax, alright. Let me treat my birthday girl” He murmurs, before pressing his face into your chest latching onto one of your perked nipples. 

“Rafe-” You could feel a fucking cascade surge within you, as he laved at your chest. Shit.

His large hand rests at your ribs as he sucks and rolls his tongue against your bud. He alternates between the two, teasing and biting at your soft skin. All while continuing to rock against your slit. … and fuck does it feel good. 

His head raises from your chest, and he sports a devious smirk. “Always so sensitive here, huh? Making a mess all over my cock and I havent even fuck you yet.”

Heat flows to your face, and you look away from him irritated. He could be so cocky, and he was in no position to be! Not after his actions today!

Within an instant his hand swiftly grasps your face, forcing you to keep eye contact with him.

“Baby you’re soaked, stop denying me.”

He closes the distance between your lips, but before they connect you tilt your head up. Throwing him a curve ball this time. You hardly get to relish on your victory, when his hand slips away from your jaw and his fingers curl around your throat. 

His grip tightens, and you gasp, as he possessively presses his lips to yours.

“Don’t piss me off. Try me again and see what happens.”

The restriction of air makes it hard for you to pace your breaths, and an uncontrollable moan slips out as he works your clit. 

That devilish grin appears on his face again. Then all at once he sheathes himself into you. Warmth spreads throughout your body and your focus falls to the soft moans that escape from his lips. His soft, pink, pretty lips that hover just over yours.

His eyes are half lidded as he rocks into you, completely and utterly blissed out.

“God you feel so fucking good” He praises.

You snap out of your fucked out daze, and remeber that you had to be strong. You needed to prove your point.

“This isn't me-” you gasp at a particularly deep stroke, “This isn't me forgiving you. I’m still mad at you”

His hips are slow and calculated as he thrusts into yours. “Is that right?” He chuckles lowly, “You’re so mad at me… that why you're dripping around me and sucking me in? Is that it huh?” 

His pace quickens, stroking along your walls just right. Making you so sensitive. You hate how good he’s making you feel. The swirl of emotions and confliction and alcohol has your lips parting.

“Fuck you” you whine out. 

He snickers at that. Which meant nothing good.

His pace increases almost instantaneously. He pounds into you, harder and less gentle than before. His hand moves to splay along one of your thighs. Pinning it to the mattress to further spread your legs open for him. 

The new angle allows him to reach new depths that make your vision go spotty. His hand tightens around your airways, and the pleasure has you clenching your eyes shut. You were close, you could feel it.

“Please” you moan out, not sure what exactly you're begging for at this point. “Please”

As soon as the pleas fall from your tongue, he pulls out of you. The emptiness has you longing and aching to be filled again. 

He flips you over, so that you're laying on your tummy. Your face gets buried into a pillow and a lewd muffled moan escapes your mouth when he buries himself inside you again. 

He holds you down at your waist, fucking you into the mattress with a silent rage.

“You hear that?” he taunts, knowing damn well that all you can hear is the sound of your smothered moans.

To your surprise his hand snakes around your neck, lifting you from the pillow. The sound of you squelching around him accompanied by the slapping of skin fills the air. Oh that sound. 

At this rate you can hardly remember what you were holding out for.

Your gaze trails to the bedside table, more so what sits on top of it. A bouquet of flowers. Fuck maybe he actually is sorry. 

You feel your walls begin to tighten. Your orgasm was approaching fast and you didn't know how much longer you could last. His pace was relentless.

“Rafe slow down” you whine, and pout.

He drops your head back into the pillow, then presses his chest to your back. His ragged breath fans over your ears. 

“You feel too fucking good.” He continues stroking your walls, “You make it so hard to stop. Shit maybe I shouldn’t stop. Maybe I should fuck you all night and give you a baby as a birthday gift huh?”

You grab a fistfull of the fitted sheet as your walls flutter and tighten around him. Letting the waves of electricity flow through you as he continues fucking you through it.

“Already such a perfect little housewife, the only thing missing is a little one running around. Isn’t that right?”

YES PLEASE I LOVE YOU AND YOUR WRITING SO MUCH😘

Taking anti-depressant pills?? Seeing a therapist??? Journaling??? No need babe, my fav writer just dropped another x reader fic.

I JUST COMBUSTED INTO THIN AIR THE TRAILER IS SO GOOD

ilysm stop this is such high praise coming from you aaahh you made my day🥺🥺🥺🥺

stepbro rafe hcs!

Warnings: stepcest, dub-con, reader’s lowkey a bimbo, light smut, pervy behavior, DARK CONTENT, jealousy.

a/n: this is my first post so please be nice and as always mdni!

stepbrother! rafe who was always a little too touchy with you, holding your hips to move you out of his way, caressing your head when you did something right, placing his hand on your thigh as you sat next to him at family dinner, making you his personal eye candy at parties, making his friends envious, and making their shorts tighten at your cleavage as they watched you lean down and pick something up for Rafe.

You dismissed it as casual affection because you were just relieved that your intimidating big evil stepbrother liked you.

;;

A shiver ran through you as you felt Rafe’s fingers graze your spine as he pulls down the zipper, and you see him lick his lips at the sight of your boobs spilling out of your push-up bra.

You gasp when he unhooks it in one swift motion making it pool at your feet, and you bite your lip as his finger reaches out to brush over your hardened nipple.

stepbro! Rafe always carries drags you back to his room when you've had a little too much to drink, stripping you and changing your clothes so you can wear his, so you know better than to protest as his gaze hungrily travels down your half-naked body, swallowing roughly when your palms reach up to squeeze your boobs as a protection against the cold air and cock twitching when you look up at him through your lashes and whine for him to give you his shirt already.

;;

stepbro! rafe wrapped your lace panties around his hardening cock, getting off to your pictures, in his defense, you did ask him to take a good picture of you and perhaps he took a few extra for himself. You didn't mind because you were wearing the miniskirt he bought you as an act of reconciliation after he beat up that touron for talking to you, so it's not entirely his fault that he took a few in different angles. That's what a nice stepbrother does, right?

;;

stepbro! rafe who takes you shopping on the mainland where he buys you the skimpiest little skirts he can think of, skirts that he knows will undoubtedly hike up when you bend over, as well as some lace lingerie sets that would flash through your see-through shirts.

He usually follows you into the dressing room as you change, observing you with a hungry glare. He means well, of course; after all, who else is going to assist you in undressing?

;;

drunk or coked out stepbro! Rafe who slips into your room at night under the guise of just checking in on his stepsister, and before you know it he’s grinding against you,and being the good and obedient, step sister that you are, you grind back into him knowing that he just needs to relieve some tension. However, you squeeze your thighs together in an effort to stop him when he inserts his hand between them,

“Rafe …. but mom and dad?”

Sighing, he moves in closer and says, "Look, I just need you right now, okay?" and with that, he grabs your hand and presses it against his bulge. “This is what you do to me” he groans. You relent some not wanting to upset him he’s your favorite person after all and you just want to help him, it's what good stepsisters do right? And you let his hand make its way into your shorts, calloused fingers teasing your clit, “fuck so wet for me angel” he mumbles kissing you on the sweet spot right under your ear, and when you hear his belt unbuckle and hand snake his way around your throat you know you're in for a long night.

And isn't it just so pretty to think?

All along there was some / Invisible string / Tying you to me?

wc 9.4k

a/n this Rafe is softer than my usual, so divergent from canon it’s kind of embarrassing. I hope you love him anyway. Because I do. He’s so 🥺

When you’re seven and a half years old, you make a playground pact with your best friend and neighbour, Kiara Carrera. 

It’s reinforced with twined pinky fingers and homemade friendship bracelets, the red and gold cotton floss shiny and half-hitched. 

I won’t leave the Outer Banks, never ever, you say, solemn eyes to the sky, legs crossed over itchy bark. And you repeat those words a few times, voice low and conspiratorial, the recess clamour like white noise against the backdrop of your conviction.

It doesn’t matter that she’s younger than you are, less sage, with a larger house to return to and shinier toys on her bed. When you attend the same elementary school, are afforded the same lunch-time break, social structure appears a menial concept — Kiara Carrera is your neighbour, and therefore she is your best friend. Six and three quarters with unkempt hair and a missing tooth, she echoes your sentiment with a hand on her heart, the other connected to yours, a sacred finger wreath.

Later, when you’re satisfied with your pinky promise enchantment, you steal away to a hidden corner of the playground to continue scheming.

Rafe Cameron and his friends, two grades above you, take over the hallowed spot to organise a game of Lava. It’s how, unbeknownst to him, even more so to you, a loose strand of red string gets caught in a sneaker groove. He brings it home with him, forgotten friendship bracelet floss, the same type of thread used to embroider the promise on your wrist.

Arguably, this is where your story begins.

It takes several more—fourteen, exactly—years for this fact to become obvious.

You’re twenty-one years old when you return to the Outer Banks for good. Driving the same, beaten-down Honda Civic with worn tires and a crooked bumper — you’d snagged it secondhand from a mechanic your father knew, its disposal at the hands of a Kook who deemed it decrepit. Something about how his kin deserved a newer model, the shiniest vehicle on the block, the car they’d used to practice on now your mainstay means of transportation. 

Not that you minded, of course. As someone who had always toed the line between Kook and Pogue, the class war had never been something that piqued any overt vehemence. You were perfectly content with your humble, middle-class roots; they’d provided you with the means to a good education, summer jobs galore, a roof over your head and food on the table that didn’t feel too much like a chore.

The callow freedom to decorate a reasonably sized bedroom, still embellished with the dangling fairy lights, glossy posters of your youth. It’s strange, being grown and surrounded by forgotten trinkets. The sun shines through a small crack in your curtains, lemon-yellow light that stripes your face with bittersweet nostalgia. 

You drop your belongings to the ground and make your way to the window, unlatching it to free a swell of stale air. Outside, the scenery is violently suburban — trim hedges and picket fences, winding streets of melted asphalt. Sticky honey-suckle in the air, distant traffic rivalling the trill of cicadas. You may reside within just another, run-of-the-mill American neighbourhood, but there’s magic in the thin wafer of sea in the horizon; nothing beats an Outer Banks summer, and of that you’ve always been certain.

Your gaze lingers over glimmering blue before it’s dropping again, falling onto the pavement just as someone there detects your presence.

When Kiara’s parents enrolled her into the Academy instead of Kildare High, you were understandably inconsolable at the prospect of starting afresh. She’d been your trusted confidant since before you’d had secrets to share; making brand new friends was a terrifying concept, one thirteen-year-old you definitely wasn’t ready to accept. But time doesn’t make allowances for anyone, as you’d come to realise — freshman year came and went, lack of best friend notwithstanding, and you managed to survive it the same way you would sophomore year, junior and senior year following. When she did finally transfer to Kildare High, growing pains and teenage ailments hindered any meaningful reconnection. Friends without the consigliere title — menial small-talk friends, the acquaintances you greet in the hallway between periods. 

History enough to make your wistful chest ache, not so great that you’re debilitated by a plaintive sense of regret.

She meets your gaze with a surprised smile on her face, any prior ambivalence giving way to affable delight. Two untidy plaits frame her otherwise flawless face, the rest of her brunette hair tucked behind sunburnt ears. Streaks of paler bronze shine in the sun. 

“No way!” She exclaims loudly, cupping one hand around her mouth. The other crimps the cardboard box of beers in her hand, curled under her arm and pressed into her side. “When the fuck did you get home?”

Beside her, a girl you recognise as Sarah Cameron furrows her brow. She’s wearing frayed denim shorts and a white baby tee, her silky blonde tresses lifting up in the breeze. The converse on her feet are pristine white, untouched. 

“Like,” you squint down at your watch, its polished face glaring in the sun, “ten minutes ago.”

Kiara nods approvingly, grinning up at you. “For summer break?”

“For good,” you correct, and then you balk, weak stomach lurching. Saying it out loud makes everything feel that much more real. 

The Outer Banks end-game, settling down and starting a family. You’ve always known that this is where you wanted to end up, but the prospect of getting started—of a ground-up, suburban conception—has your poor gut knotting, abdomen in stitches.

Job-hunting, check. House-hunting, check. Significant-other hunting… a burdensome detail. You haven’t quite hacked the art of sifting through the duds on dating apps.

Kiara’s eyes widen in surprise, her soft jaw slackening. “You’re kidding,” she says, disbelief evident on her features. “Why?”

“Shit, Kiara, the Outer Banks isn’t all bad,” you respond, breathing out a diffident laugh. “I’ve always liked it here.”

Kiara makes a face, sharing a look with Sarah beside her. “To live? Forever?”

“Well.” You pause, you shrug abashedly. One of your hands lifts to your face, knuckles scrubbing over your cheek. “I don’t know, yeah. It’s safe. Warm. Has enough beaches to keep kids pre-occupied.”

“Woah,” Sarah pipes up then, her face crumpling in tandem cynicism. “Dude. Kids?”

You grimace in embarrassment, the tips of your ears warming. “I — eventually.”

“Well fuck,” Sarah responds, her bronze eyes full of mirth. “I thought my brother was the only person who had something good to say about this place.”

She pauses, crinkling her nose in disdain. “Oh. And my dad.”

“Um, anyway,” Kiara coughs out reproachfully, sending Sarah a meaningful glance. “Enough about your twisted family. Y/n/n — you got anything planned for the summer?”

“Just settling back in.” You shrug again. “Job hunting, house hunting, the usual crap. You guys?”

Above them, the tangerine sun is beginning to sink below the horizon, a drupe of low hanging fruit. Sticky humidity presses into your skin, hot beads of sweat prickling over your nape.

“It’s our last summer before the end, baby,” she returns tenaciously, bumping her hip against the box under her arm. Your gaze falls with the movement, registering the familiar logo of a brand of beer you’d forgotten. Kildare Island’s finest, it boasts in emblazoned letters, prior memories of the lager reminding you of stale, basement air.

Delightful. It appears that some things truly never change.

“Shit, of course,” you nod, grinning approvingly. “I forgot that you’re not actually in my year, Kie.”

“That’s because grades didn’t matter when we became friends,” she says, furrowing her brow thoughtfully. “Nothing did, really.”

A poignant ache sears through your chest, gone before you’re able to truly acknowledge it. “Shit, I know,” you say softly, more wistful now. “Nothing but friendship bracelets and the Winx club, huh?”

Kiara’s face splits into another sweet smile, the box of liquor raised in make-shift cheers. “Cheers to that, Flor.”

The old nickname pulls a peal of laughter from your lips, and you shake your head bemusedly, the nostalgia making it spin. “Fucking hell, I almost forgot how much I loved her.”

“Not as cool as Stella, though.” Kiara raises her eyebrows meaningfully, sharing in sacred Winx scripture. “She was my fucking idol.”

Beside her, Sarah’s head has fallen, eyes trained on a string coming undone at her frayed hem. Rare moments of silence are filled by the cicada’s faint trill. 

“Did you watch it, Sarah?” You ask, looking toward her expectantly. 

Sarah’s chin lifts in surprise, her pretty eyes softening. “Shit, uh,” she flounders, turning to Kiara for help. “The what club?”

“Dude, Winx,” Kiara enunciates, sending her an incredulous look. “You’re kidding. You really don’t know?”

“I never had first pick of the TV when I was a kid, alright?” She defends indignantly, raising her arms in surrender. “Rafe and his dumb friends monopolised it with their video games.”

“God.” Kiara makes a face. “I don’t miss how much of an asshole he was when we were kids.”

Somewhere near the back of your mind, you park this revelation. The telling past on present tense juxtaposition — was an asshole, is as in love with the Island as you are; though you’ve crossed paths with Sarah’s older brother on several occasions, never once has anything about him managed to stick with this much permanence.

Except his name. Everyone on the Outer Banks knows the name Rafe Cameron. 

“Right?” Sarah agrees, grimacing in tandem. “Whatever, he spends most of his time at the firm these days. The only time I ever see him is at Kook parties or the Club.”

“Speaking of,” Kiara says, her brown eyes widening as they lift to your window-side figure. Several minutes have elapsed since they halted in their tracks, and not a single pedestrian has passed you by, let alone a motorcycle, a jeep full of passengers. You’ve missed the quaint purlieus of middle-class suburbia. There’s something so comforting about being able to hear the bird’s chirp, to hear anxious leaves rustle in wait of Kiara’s proposal. “We’re — listen, Y/n, we’re on our way out to the beach for a bonfire right now. Kooks, pogues, tourons… you know the deal, everyone’s going. You should come.”

You balk, gaze falling to your simple attire — white singlet and linen shorts, a wafer of bare waist in between. 

“You look hot,” she adds meaningfully, as if reading your mind. “Total Island boy bait. C’mon. We’re well overdue for a catch up, don’t you think?”

“Kie,” you hesitate, looking behind you surreptitiously, “I only just got back —”

“So?” Kiara interrupts impatiently, raising her eyebrows. “You’re here for good, right? Whatever you were planning on doing tonight can wait.” She turns to Sarah then, her eyes widening pointedly. “Right, Sar?”

Sarah’s split-second quizzical look dissipates under her glare, and she falters, her head whipping to yours before she’s nodding. “No really, Y/n. You should come. It’ll be fun.”

There’s a bulging suitcase a few feet away that needs unpacking. A bedroom full of dusty old trinkets that belong in an antique store; you’d promised your parents your grown-up presence at dinner, and the prospect of shirking responsibility has you feeling young and stupid again.

Adrenaline buzzes through your veins, a quick jolt of electricity to your senses. You realise, as it fills you with a kettle full of warmth, that you like it — like this, the latitude you’ve always associated with the Outer Banks. 

“Fuck it,” you acquiesce after a beat, cracking a defeated grin. “Wait there, okay? I’m coming down now.”

—

Rafe Cameron doesn’t think he’s going to make it out tonight.

Admittedly, he rarely ever does, these days — his father, ever the tyrannical leader, is intent on churning long hours out of every one of his workers.

His eldest included, bequeathal of an impressive legacy notwithstanding. 

When he receives Kelce’s text about the imminent bonfire, he’s hunched over a set of financial documents at his desk. 

Smooth mahogany with a sole, coffee mug rim blemish, it’s an organised clutters of pens and highlighters, staplers that double as impromptu paperweights. A single framed photo is propped up in one corner, ten-year-old Rafe posing beside an elegant woman. Her irises shine vivid blue in sunlight, smile lines that crinkle identical to her son’s. She’s beautiful, immortalised. A grounding presence.

When his phone screen lights up, the LED makes her pixelated figure glow.

Smithy: we 🔛 for tonight ?

Rafe’s brow furrows as it registers, his tired eyes drawn to the text like moths to a flame. He gives his surroundings a furtive once-over before sliding his phone into his lap, thumb braced over the keyboard.

Cameron: can’t, bro. Working overtime

Kelce’s typing bubble pops up almost instantaneously.

Smithy: miss me with that shit. It’s fucking Friday!

Rafe sighs defeatedly, a long, haggard exhale. He doesn’t know whether Kelce’ll ever understand the magnitude of patriarchal pressure he’s under. It’s as he’s attempting to contrive another excuse—simpler, less niche devoir and more relatable in nature—that the process is cut short by the arrival of his father.

Needless to say, Rafe straightens in a hurry. Suddenly, the stack of documents on his desk feels inadequate. 

“Getting through it all alright?” Ward asks menially, not bothering to look up from his phone as he enters. His paces are slow and purposeful, heavy-footed, his demeanour like dynamite you’re afraid to set off. This is a man who’s mastered the art of commanding a room with his presence.

“Uh, yeah,” Rafe answers, hunching over the desk protectively. The weight of his chest makes the financial statements crumple.

“Good.” It’s obvious that Ward Cameron isn’t the least bit interested. “So, listen, I’ve got to jet off and take care of some Bahama’s business tonight. I can count on you to dismiss the office staff and lock up?”

His gaze is trained on his phone screen, thick brows heavily furrowed as he types text after important text. Eye contact is reserved for business partners, clients of significance.

Not Rafe. If it was, he might’ve even noticed his son brighten, exhaustion giving way to a quiet sense of elation. 

“Oh — uh, yeah, definitely,” Rafe reassures after a beat, careful to keep his tone level. “When will you be home?”

“Sunday,” Ward answers curtly, his eyes lifting fleetingly. They move over Rafe’s face before dropping to his desk and narrowing, the hand that isn’t holding his phone gesticulating toward it intently. “Tidy this up,” he adds sternly, turning around. “And don’t leave until all financial paperwork is done.”

“Right.” Rafe nods, reaching up to scrub the back of his neck absentmindedly. “I won’t.”

Ward has his back to him when he halts near the exit, the menacing timbre of his voice almost making Rafe flinch. “Better not. I’m counting on you.”

He shoulders his way through the hardwood door before Rafe can so much as open his mouth — not that he particularly minds this, there isn’t much to say when a threat’s involved. Once Ward’s unwieldy footsteps have muffled out of existence, Rafe allows his shoulders to relax, retrieving his phone from its home in his lap.

It’s sheer luck, he decides, a serendipitous coincidence, that Ward’s business trip affords him an early finish in this instance. Temporary freedom from his father’s despotic regime is much appreciated — this way, Rafe can complete his tasks in his own time, allow for much-needed breaks and social activity. 

Total fluke. Right?

Cameron: what time?

Smithy: there he is! Got you some bud light btw, heading there now

—

“You’re sure?” You ask again, eyeing the white claw dubiously.

“Dude.” Kiara cuts you a cajoling faux-glare, thrusting it into your chest. “Please drink. You’re totally not enjoying yourself.”

“I don’t need alcohol to have fun,” you grumble back weakly, accepting it with reluctance. There’s a quick hiss as you pull open the tab, wispy carbon dioxide rising from within it. 

“No you don’t,” Kiara agrees sagely, raising her eyebrows. “But fuck, it makes fun more achievable, don’t you think?”

Around you, a sea of familiar faces. 

You’re huddled underneath a bald cypress tree with Sarah and Kiara, a modest, people-watching distance away from the bustling bonfire. Scorching flames ascend from a pith of deep ochre, clouds of grey and black smoke unfurling over the scene. The air is dry and slightly acrid, an alloy of saltwater and cheap liquor, the familiar scents of summer. Sweat, damp skin, body heat. A cedar-wood and musk cologne you didn’t realise was committed to memory.

“Not wrong,” you allow, tipping back the can and taking a generous gulp. It’s as you acquiesce and allow you head to fall that someone catches your eye; tall with broad shoulders and a Bud Light in his hand, Rafe Cameron is an overwhelming presence in your periphery. 

And he’s staring. He hasn’t had enough bottles of the American-style lager to blame the alcohol for this supposed indiscretion.

Perhaps it’s because it’s you, again, standing a few feet away from him, again. In the same place at the same time under the same, presumable act of divine providence; Rafe Cameron doesn’t know whether he’s overthinking it, but this fate-enacted déjà vu is getting a little ridiculous.

—

When you’re eight-years-old, Rafe Cameron asks you to join his game of Capture the Flag. The proposition comes after his mother—your classroom teacher—Mrs Cameron pulls him aside during her recess duty, having noticed your small frame hunched over and alone in a hidden corner of the playground. 

She beckons him over discreetly, alerting him to the issue at hand.

“Sweetheart, listen,” she murmurs quietly, bowing her head to his level. “Think you can do something for me?”

Rafe looks up at her quizzically, furrowing his brow. “What?”

“That girl over there,” she whispers, nodding toward you surreptitiously, “looks awfully lonely, don’t you think?”

He follows her gaze with a bemused frown on his face, unsure what this has to do with him. A gust of wind lifts his overgrown locks off his forehead, strands of ashen blonde that his mother pats down absentmindedly. 

“Mom,” he groans abashedly, ducking away from her hand with an angry scowl. “Stop. So?”

“So,” she echoes sternly. “Haven’t I taught you about the importance of the phrase ‘no man gets left behind’?”

“She isn’t a man,” Rafe argues meekly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Rafael,” his mother warns, raising her eyebrows.

Rafe huffs out a frustrated sigh, wriggling his folded arms tauter, an airtight seal. “Can’t you ask someone else? A girl?”

“I could.” She allows a purposeful pause, her voice gentle but appraising. “I’m asking you.”

“Why?” Rafe groans out defeatedly, his small shoulders crumpling forward.

“Imagine if it was Sarah over there, or little Wheeze without anyone to play with.” Rafe’s heart pulls. “Wouldn’t you want another older brother making sure that they were okay?”

He keeps his gaze averted lest his mother see it soften, but it’s clear he acquiesces, his small feet beginning to drag him forward. 

“That’s my guy,” she says approvingly, stretching forward to comb through his wind-mussed hair, again. And as he dodges her fingers for the second time today, he thinks, why me? And then, why her?

Because of course you’re all alone on the one day of the month that his mother’s on recess duty, a cruel twist of fate. Of course he’s a convenient, beckon-able distance away, of course your isolated figure is within discernible range.

Of course, of course, of course… how many more before coincidence becomes something more, something greater, something he isn’t able to explain?

As Rafe nears, he realises that you’re folded over a tattered book. You’re clasping the hardwood cover with an intensity that makes your small knuckles blanch; your face is hidden, a wide brim sunhat on your head, and your knees are pulled close, right up against your torso.

An interlude to the warm sun on your back, cool breeze predominating. You slacken the draw-cord of you sunhat and tug it free, mildly bristled by the shadow-framing perpetrator that’s stopping you reading.

When you look up at him, you startle momentarily. He’s older and taller with brilliant blue eyes and a frown on his face; were it not for the fact that his hand was outstretched, you would’ve been certain that he was here to shun you away.

“Uh, hey,” he greets gauchely, his expression a little pained. “I’m Rafe.”

“Oh.” Your eyes widen in tandem diffidence, and you scramble to shut the book in your lap. “Y/n. I’ll get out of your way —”

“Wait — no, listen,” Rafe interrupts impatiently, stepping forward and placing his hand on your shoulder. “You know how to play Capture the Flag?”

You balk, gaze dropping to where his fingers fold over your skin. “No.”

“Oh.” Rafe grimaces, retrieving his hand in a hurry. “Right.”

From across the field, Kelce’s strident voice rings clear — he’s on an urgent, recess-induced time crunch, one that’s sure to garner the attention of his friends. They probably caught the absent-minded action, too, him reaching out for this pretty girl’s shoulder, all alone. Disinterested. Delaying a game of Capture the Flag in lieu of fraternising with the enemy. He swallows. The tips of his ears feel overwhelmingly warm all of a sudden.

“Sorry,” you say, frowning up at him.

“Um, yeah,” he returns, looking over his shoulder furtively. He’s going to kill his mom for putting him in this tricky position. “Listen. Want to learn?”

You blink. “Me?”

“Sure, why not,” Rafe replies awkwardly, scrubbing his palm over the back of his neck. 

A pause as your gaze moves over his features, screens for signs of insincerity, any vacillation in his demeanour. When you fail to find cause to doubt his proposition, you acquiesce, dusting off your linen shorts before standing up and straightening. 

Even at your full height, he has a generous few inches on your figure. The revelation does something funny to his underdeveloped heartstrings, makes his weak pulse lurch like it’s supposed to mean something.

He attributes this feeling to those aforementioned, older brotherly instincts. It isn’t as though there’s any other reason his resolve is so unwavering.

“Okay,” you say, smiling wide, unabashed. Rafe’s pulse does another funny little jolt, taunting him, refusing to dulcify.

He overcompensates for it by muttering a stilted no problem in response, guiding you through the recess bustle to the game-playing space his friends have designated.

And maybe you’re a faster learner than he’d initially anticipated, fitting right into the group despite being in a grade below him. Later, he’ll justify his closeness to you with similar sentiments — you were an asset to his team, he’d insist to his best friend Kelce, small and quick and difficult to catch, the perfect person to swipe the opponent’s flag.

Not pretty, or anything, easy to look at. Rafe Cameron refuses to touch how fundamentally right your proximity feels to him. 

There aren’t any more overt instances of contact until you’re ten. 

Sure, you’re placed in Rafe’s former classroom in third grade, and sure, you’re assigned the same window-side desk as him. You even manage to carve your initials in a wooden corner that opposes his — it’s a curious twist of fate, this immortalisation of your shared presence in that space. And it’s definitely just coincidence that you happen to take the same detour home, everyday; kicking up loose gravel on the same length of grey pavement, best friends with K-names and a joint affinity for ice-cream truck circumvents.

Right?

Rafe Cameron is twelve-years-old when he realises that you’re the coach’s daughter. With your mother working overtime and no spare cash for a baby-sitter, you’re forced to tag along to soccer practice after school.

Your figure on the bench is a familiar sight — the same shoulders folded over the same, small torso, a tattered book in your lap that’s near identical to the one before it. 

Admittedly, it’s a debilitating sight. He hasn’t experienced this overwhelming, pulse-lurching feeling in a while.

The coach’s firm hand on his shoulder breaks him out of his reverie. He realises that he’s gawking at you in the middle of a running drill.

“You alright, son?” He asks gruffly, frowning down at Rafe. 

“Oh, uh —” Rafe flounders, ducking his head in embarrassment. Damp strands of dirty-blonde kiss the top of his eyebrows before lifting, “— I — yes. Sorry.”

The coach cocks his head to one side curiously, following Rafe’s gaze to near-empty bench in the distance. His eyebrows lift in stern appraisal as your figure registers. “Ah,” he says, trying not to look too pleased. “You know my daughter?”

“No I don’t,” Rafe answers in a hurry, and then he falters, grimacing abashedly. “I mean… yeah, kind of. Same school.”

“Hm.” He nods, reaching for the whistle around his neck before blowing it dismissively. “Take five, alright?”

Rafe doesn’t want to. He can feel ten sets of eyes staring at him, the coach’s stern instruction doing little to quell their curiosity. But regardless of his willingness to re-introduce himself, there’s a pull in his chest that supersedes any reluctance, dragging his feet forward like a moth drawn to a flame.

You’re prettier at ten than you were at eight. When you look up at him today, free from the shackles of a wide brim hat, your lashes are longer and your soft cheeks fuller, a kind smile on your face as you look over his features.

Recognition. It’s comforting and terrifying at the same time. You say, shutting your book and angling your chin up toward his face, “Oh, hey. Capture the Flag Rafe.”

Rafe isn’t ready to admit what the sweet nickname is doing to his brain. “Y/n. Again,” he acknowledges, grinning weakly in tandem.

“I know.” You make a face. “Can’t go home until my dad’s done here.”

“Didn’t know he was,” Rafe says, glancing over at him wistfully. “Your dad, I mean. Must be nice to have coach around all the time.”

There’s something sombre in his tone as he says it, down-trodden, as though having a decent father is a privilege and not a right. Your brow furrows. “This team’s all he ever talks about,” you reply, clearing your throat in an attempt to adopt a lower, gruffer lilt. “You know, they’re a good set of lads, sweetheart,” you pause, raising your eyebrows, “if I’d have known one of them was you, I might’ve even told him I agree."

Rafe’s cheeks warm. “I’m nothing special.” You’re the special one.

“You’re good at Capture the Flag,” you return, shrugging easily. “Plus, your mom’s definitely my favourite teacher ever. Makes sense that you get my dad as a coach. Parent swap.”

“Parent swap,” Rafe echoes, still grinning. He reaches up to mess with his overgrown, blonde locks, yellow sunlight making his sweaty skin glow. 

“She’s been off sick a lot recently, though,” you add, chewing on your bottom lip thoughtfully. “Is everything okay?” 

“Oh.” Something in Rafe’s features tenses, an unreadable emotion flickering over his blue irises. “Um. I don’t know. She’s had to take time off to go to the hospital for some stuff.”

From the way his voice thickens, shoulders braced, you know not to pry or press him with more questions. You say, “I hope she’s okay.”

“Yeah,” Rafe responds roughly, clearing his throat.  “Uh, me too.”

A pause. You scramble for purchase on another conversation starter, absentminded gaze moving over his tense figure. Lingering over perspiration.

“How’s Kildare middle going, though?” You ask faux-nonchalantly, pretty eyes dropping again.

“Alright, I guess,” Rafe answers, his arm falling back to his side. “Not too long left. Moving on to the Academy after this year.”

“Oh.” You pause, disappointment etching your features. “Damn. We’ll just miss each other, huh?”

A beat. Though you’re right in principle, Rafe isn’t sure he agrees; take this rendezvous for example, the one before it, a set of superimposed coincidences that just happened to work in your favour. 

It’s strange. Something at his heart’s core tells him it’s certain you’ll meet again. “I don’t think so,” he responds, less bashful and more sure. “Sure we’re gonna find a way to bump into each other again, soon.”

And there’s truth in his admission, sanctioned by sweet conviction, your grandmother’s brief stint at the hospital coinciding with one of his mother’s.

He’s thirteen-years-old and staring down a vending machine when you find him. 

It bathes him in an offensive hue of fluorescent white, etching every frown line and forehead crease, a mirror machine of self-erosion. Just over a year since your bench-side tryst, but Rafe’s haggard appearance makes it feel far longer. 

You find yourself swallowing as you look over his figure, a subconscious urge to draw nearer taking over. Your bones ache. Walking slow at first, his unshed tears prompt your ginger paces to gain a quickness.

“Rafe,” is all you say at first, quiet, a little unsure. 

His face moves to yours before he’s ducking away in embarrassment, scrubbing the heel of his palm over his damp cheeks roughly. When he lifts his head again, the quiet desolation he displayed hides behind an armour of indifference. 

“Uh, hey,” his voice cracks, and he resists the urge to grimace. “What are you doing here?”

You balk, chewing on your bottom lip nervously. “My grandma’s sick.”

“Oh,” Rafe says quietly, his tense features softening. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” you return, more meek than anything disconsolate. “You?”

“My mom.” Rafe clears his throat abruptly, averting his gaze. “They’ve been giving her some stuff, I don’t know. Isn’t really helping.”

“Oh,” you say, furrowing your brow apologetically. “I’m sorry too.”

“And… and they won’t tell me anything,” he adds urgently, his quiet voice taking on a frustrated edge. Rafe isn’t sure where exactly this sudden burst candour is coming from — he’s barely able to confide in his best friend, Kelce, let alone the random girl from whom he appears to never stray.

That’s unfair. You aren’t that random to him. Though the pair of you have only shared a handful of meaningful conversations, the synonym isn’t well-suited — there has to be a reason that he feels so comfortable in your presence. 

Perhaps it’s to do with the way your features soften, the promise of proximity like a warm embrace, grounding. Not random, but pretty, he decides. Pretty girl. He’s struck with the sudden, surprising revelation that over Kelce, over his father, over almost anyone, you take precedence. 

Almost. He adds, “I don’t even know why. I — I mean, my dad’s been treating me like a grown-up since Wheezie was born, anyway. What’s different now? What — what’s wrong with my mom? I don’t get it. I’ll —”

He’s cut off when you wrap your arms around his torso, fingers intertwined and pressed into his back. It’s the way your mother’s always calmed you down when you’re stressed — pulled you close and squeezed you tight, held you until the anger and desolation acquiesces. 

Slowly, gingerly, Rafe’s arms encircle your shoulders, a heavy exhale leaving his lips and pressing into your hair. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble into his chest, not particularly sonorous but vibrating over his skin anyway. His muscles relax. He allows his chin to drop an inch, sun-bleached strands of ashen blonde flopping over his forehead. 

“Me too,” he croaks out, clearing his throat again. He’s endured enough lectures about being strong for his mom to last him a lifetime, Ward’s stern voice imposing. About how men don’t cry and he should strive to do the same, emulate the undaunted older brother, hold down the fort he’ll inherit one day.

In this moment, all of that external noise melts away. How are you always in the right place at exactly the right time? There’s years within minutes when you do finally break the embrace.

“I don’t know why adults do that,” you admit after a beat, furrowing your brow apologetically. “I know you can handle the truth. You’re brave.”

Something in Rafe’s chest cracks. “You don’t know that.”

“You asked me to play Capture the Flag.” You shrug. “Even though we weren’t in the same class. And… and even though you didn’t even know me. That’s brave.”

“Is it?” Rafe asks, a hopeful lilt to his quiet voice.

“Yeah,” you nod reassuringly, frowning a little. “Don’t worry about your parents, they’re just being stupid. They’ll come around, I swear it. Do you trust me?”

It’s perplexing. Without access to the context clues that denote your perpetual closeness, it’s difficult for Rafe to justify how easily he’s able to answer that question. Yes, absolutely yes, and he means it too, with every ounce of conviction in a chest that beats for you.

But he doesn’t understand it, where this unwavering faith is coming from. And it’s because he doesn’t know of the red string in sneaker grooves that he’s outgrown.

He doesn’t know that the humble chalet he can see from his bedroom window is yours, that there’s a reason his eyes are drawn to the rectangle of light on the second floor. If he squints really hard, he can even catch vague details of its interior, small bed and smaller bed bathed in a lemon-yellow hue. You’ve always lived on the cusp of the Figure Eight and the Cut, a reasonably modest neighbourhood that’s kept you a convenient, stone’s throw away.

He isn’t educated on the statistical likelihood of such coincidences, of chance and seeming circumstance thrusting you together once again.

“Okay,” he agrees after pause, exhaling heavily.

“Good.” You nod again, glancing over your shoulder ruefully. “Will you be here tomorrow, too?”

“Maybe.” You need to head back, and he understands that. It doesn’t matter. He isn’t ready. His chest tightens and his haggard bones ache. “You?”

“Dunno,” you say, frowning sadly. “Don’t get told anything either.”

Rafe nods curtly, the column of his throat constricting. “Hopefully.”

“If not,” you pause, pretty eyes widening meaningfully, “doesn’t matter. We’ll see each other again. We always do.”

And your promise rings true, of course it does, when you’re fourteen-years-old and on an after school detour.

Three years without reconnection, growing pains and callow indisposition, has allowed the pair of you to forget about the string. But the string hasn’t forgotten. It’s formed through invisible locks of unfaltering, gold thread, made of strong fibres that maintain this look-don’t-touch distance.

For example, Rafe’s running route often cuts through your neighbourhood. It winds through the Figure Eight before trailing the outskirts of a public garden, the same one you enjoy reading in, neglected roots notwithstanding. And though he hasn't always been a stickler for aerobic endurance, the habit developed a little while after his mother’s passing.

It’s underpinned by a compulsion to tire himself out lest he expend his energy elsewhere. Agonise over all the thing he failed to tell her, failed to do, all the times he could’ve held her tight and said I love you. Men don’t cry, though. They run until their lacrimal ducts are void of any tears.

You’re studying the impressive array of candy in aisle four when he lumbers past it, paces broad and unwieldy. He’s following by an inebriated posse that’s causing ruckus; drunk and underage at the expense of attending fifth period, the group of Academy juniors are grappling with multiple misdemeanours.

It’s why they’ve opted to shop at this smaller supermarket instead of the haughty WholeFoods that’s a little closer to home; there aren’t many people that’d recognise them here, on the outskirts of the Eight with greater ties to the Cut.

Or so he thinks. A strange twist of fate that you’re here, sure, but even stranger is the fact that he looks over as your head turns.

Of course the one aisle he hazards a glance at has you. In the midst of drunken clamour, voices blaring and blissfully ignorant, his paces stagger to a halt, heartbeat sky-rocketing.

You startle as he registers, surprised gaze meeting his before you’re breaking eye-contact and looking away. The two years he hasn’t seen you are evident on your figure — Rafe isn’t sure whether it’s the dodgy liquor talking, or him, but there’s enough inches of bare skin on display for his brain to short-circuit. Cute uniform, longer limbs, same soft, airbrushed skin. Prettier eyes and fuller lips, as if that’s fucking possible, as if there’s ever been a time that he hasn’t agonised over your features.

He doesn’t mean to balk and take inventory, his sharp jaw slackening and palms beginning to grow clammy. It’s just that the alcohol he’s consumed has his self-control disintegrating.

“Yo, Cameron,” calls Kelce in front of him, stumbling back around with a bemused frown on his face. “The fuck are y’doing, bro?”

“You guy s’go ahead,” Rafe urges, grimacing at the slight slur to his words. “I’m coming.”

Kelce attempts to squint appraisingly, swaying in place for a beat before acquiescing. “Whatever,” he allows, turning around. “We’ll be in the snack aisle.”

Rafe nods distractedly, changing his trajectory to traverse the long aisle toward your figure. Slower, a little circumspect, hyper-aware of your tense shoulders and backpack braced hands. Bare limbs. The way the column of your throat shifts as you swallow.

The artificial lights overhead make your skin glow, and Rafe struggles to focus on placing one foot in front of the other. Once he’s close enough to touch, he rocks back on his heels, sheepish grin on his face and several inches on your frame. 

“Uh, shit,” he flounders, his voice liquefying around the edges. “We’ve gotta stop meeting like this.”

He’s mostly joking, but there’s an exaggerated edge to his voice that the alcohol isn’t able to liquefy.

“Yeah,” you say curtly, sending him a quick smile.

It doesn’t quite meet your eyes, though, and Rafe really aches.

He adds, “Especially since it always catches me off guard,” the slur hardening as the weight of your indifference washes over him.

A pause. You use the silence to take inventory of the features you’ve forgotten, the features that’ve changed — longer torso and broader shoulders, slanted jaw and sharper cheekbones. A gold signet ring on his forefinger. He flexes and relaxes his hand absentmindedly, a bulb of yellow light folding over its flat surface.

“Really?” You ask, gaze softening as it lifts to meet his. The ache ebbs. “I’ve come to expect it.”

“Yeah?” He steps closer still, unable to help himself. “Should I be flattered by that, Y/l/n?”

You raise your eyebrows at him. “I don’t know, Cameron. Should you?”

“Well,” he murmurs slowly, more sure, more willing to flirt with fate as his hazy mind clears. There's more blue in his eyes than there was a second ago, deep cerulean that appears to glint brighter with mirth. “If it means you think about me from time to time…”

“Hm.” You shrug again, heavy appraisal in your voice. “Even if I do, it definitely isn’t this you.”

Rafe grimaces, reaching up to scrub his palm over the back of his neck. He doesn’t know why your approval means so much to him; in theory, you’re just the girl he happens upon every few years.

Except that you’re not. Except that you never left.

Except that your favourite haunt is a hidden alcove that verges on Tannyhill Estate; that his mother’s grave is along the route to your grandparents, that his younger sister Wheezie has a best friend in your neighbourhood. He’s driven past your house a number of times over the past few months, oblivious to its significance, your presence beyond a white picket fence and garden.

“I haven’t had a lot,” he tries.

You raise your eyebrows again. “It’s 3.30 on a Wednesday afternoon.”

“And you’re buying candy,” he says, his arm dropping again. A pause as it swings dangerously close to your wrist, billowing air like static over your too-warm skin. “What’re you up to later?”

“Not much,” you answer easily, and then you balk, face crumpling in embarrassment. “I mean — shit, not that I don’t have friends to hang out with, or anything, I just —”

“— freshman year?” Rafe supplies helpfully, giving you a convenient out. You aren’t sure why you’re desperate to explain yourself to him; hypothetically, he’s just the boy you know through seeming coincidences.

Except that he’s not. Except that they’re astrally excogitated.

Except that you seldom stop at the supermarket on the way home — it’d been a spur of the moment decision, one you’d never predicted would end in another reconnection.

“Yeah,” you breathe out after a beat, fidgeting with your backpack straps. Rafe’s gaze drops with the movement, and he’s struck with the sudden urge to reach out and squeeze away your diffidence. He swallows. “I — it’s whatever. Making friends is hard, you know? I’d been banking on the fact that my best friend Kiara’d be joining me next year, but she just texted me saying her parents’d enrolled her into the Academy.”

“Oh.” Rafe pauses, furrowing his brow thoughtfully. “Kiara Carrera?”

“Uh, yeah?” You send him a bemused look. “You know her?”

“She’s Sarah’s friend,” Rafe affirms; another incidental link, another chance connection. His heart pulls. “My younger sister.”

“Right,” you say, chewing on your bottom lip thoughtfully. “Huh. This island’s way too small.”

Rafe’s about to disagree when Kelce’s garbled yell cuts him off, loud and liquor heavy from a few aisles away.

“Cameron!” He slurs out urgently, loudspeaker raucous with an inebriated posse of accomplices. “Bro — the fuck are you?”

“Shit.” Rafe grimaces apologetically, his heavy gaze skating over your features. Slow, agonisingly slow, memorising the subtle details that are sure to change in a year or two. Rafe hopes a year; he hopes less, he hopes tomorrow. “Sorry. I better…”

“No biggie,” you allow, smiling affably. That’s one of them, the way your full lips curve up as you address him. The soft creases on your forehead, the way your uniform hugs your figure. Undeserved inches of bare skin, glowing yellow in artificial light. It’s going to be harder to keep his hands to himself the next time your proximity is this evident. 

“And hey, about what you said,” he adds softly, pacing backward slow. “I think the island could be smaller, don’t you?”

He’s turned around and hastened to a jog before you’re so much as able to decipher his words, let alone effuse over the insinuation.

Rafe Cameron wants Kildare to shrink. He wants to see you more than he is already. The revelation rockets through your ribcage like tempest, wreaking havoc on every chamber of your heart, every nerve-ending. 

It’s terrifying. At least you don’t have to wait as long for your next reunion.

Rafe, along with the rest of the Camerons, spends the summer before college at the Bahamas house.

And though he has a grand time in the Caribbean, flirting with locals for fun and slurping down Mai Tai’s at beach clubs, when he returns to the Outer Banks in late August there’s a hankering in his bones that grows stronger with your absence.

A stroke of luck, really, that you’re working your final shift at the Club the same day as Rafe’s farewell dinner. 

Right? 

You’re assigned to their table as soon as you begin. It’s an amity sham orchestrated by his step-mother Rose, no doubt to assert a kindred front to the rest of its Figure Eight patrons. From your kitchen safe haven, you aren’t able to see Rafe right away; only his father and younger sister are visible, Wheezie rattling away about something insignificant.

But then you step away from guarded quarters, brave the bustling interior of the Club and spot him. 

He’s wearing a checkered button-up that stretches taut over solid biceps, less gel in his hair, the overgrown strands fabric mussed. A signet ring you recognise. There’s a shadow of stubble over his chiseled jaw, sharper blue in the eyes you memorised in third grade. 

He’s tense. You’re struck with the sudden, overwhelming need to make your presence known and relax him. 

When you do sidle up to their table, however, desire gives away to self-effacement. Even sheltered as you are in the no man’s land between Pogue and Kook, Ward Cameron’s stature and notoriety are well-known to those in your neighbourhood. 

“Hello,” you greet pleasantly, plastering on a smile. “I’m Y/n, and I’m going to be your server tonight. Can I get you started on some drinks?”

At the mere mention of your name, Rafe’s head whips up in surprise, his bright eyes flaring as they make contact with yours.

“Shit, you work here?” He exclaims, his entire demeanour changing in acknowledgement. Shoulders dropping, features softening, the angle of his torso slanting toward you. It makes your chest whir.

“Uh,” you balk, looking around the table helplessly. “Just over summer, yeah. This is my last shift.”

Lucky. “You’re kidding.”

“Like I said,” you return, pretty lips pulling up more genuinely now. “Small island.”

And it’s been… what? Two years since the last time he saw you? 

You’re wearing a cute uniform that affords him the luxury of bare limbs, skirt hemmed above your knee and button-up tighter than it should be. He bets you get hit on a lot around these parts, all soft eyes and kissable cheeks, exposed legs that glow in sconce lighting. Sweet voice that’s incapable of saying the wrong thing. He swallows thickly. A lot of his graduating class have a membership to this Club. 

“Huh.” Rafe grins too, reaching up and flicking your notepad playfully. “Good gig, though?”

“Definitely,” you answer, glancing over the dining room gratefully. “Super busy, but good to get some work experience, you know?”

Ward Cameron clears his throat significantly. “Well said, my dear,” he acknowledges faux-amicably, cutting his son an imperceptible glare. “See, Rafe? It isn’t just me who understands the significance of hard work.”

An unreadable emotion flickers over his blue irises, fierce but defeated, a battle he’s lost before. “I wouldn’t have enjoyed the internship, dad,” he mutters evenly.

“Work isn’t meant to be enjoyed, son,” Ward chastises, a cruel undercurrent to his tone. 

“Yeah, well,” he sighs out tiredly, running his fingers through his hair. “I’m glad it went to someone who deserved it. Leah probably got more out of it than I ever would’ve.”

“Leah isn’t the one that’s going to be inheriting the firm one day,” Ward rebukes, angrier now.

A pause. The tension in the air has shifted enough to feel palpable.

“Uh.” You gaze moves over the table feebly, scrambling for purchase before settling on your notepad. “I’ll give you guys a sec.”

“Nonsense, we’re fine,” Ward instructs firmly, halting you in your tracks. 

He parrots an order on behalf of the table that you scrawl down slovenly, resisting the urge to steal a glance at Rafe. Make things worse, somehow, his now chagrined son the center of your gaze. When you return with their drinks, with their entree’s and mains, you hope he doesn’t notice the newfound scarcity of your interactions.

But Rafe notices. He always notices.

It’s the reason he hangs back as they’re leaving the premises, lingering near the kitchen doors in an attempt to intercept you.

You’re carrying two steaming plates of Alfredo when he does so.

“Shit,” you curse, stumbling back in surprise. The mains wobble dangerously, heart hammering into your throat. “Don’t do that.”

Rafe’s features crumple apologetically, acquiescing into a weak grin. “Sorry. Just needed to see you before I left.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Why?”

“Uh.” Rafe falters. He combs his calloused fingers through his hair, loose strands creating a flyaway halo around his head. “Shit — I don’t know. Maybe ‘cause I’m heading to UNC tomorrow and you’re not.”

“So I gathered,” you return softly, more bashful now. “Your dad’s quite intense about it, huh?”

“Fuck,” Rafe sighs out, making a face. “I know. He’s — I’m sorry you had to see that shit, he usually reserves his stupid lectures for when we’re not out in public. Doesn't wanna fuck with his image, you know? He’s super heavy on all that happy family crap.”

“Oh,” you say, chewing on your bottom lip nervously. A rim of sharp heat is beginning to transfer from plate to palm. “No, it’s fine. You don’t have to apologise.”

“I do,” Rafe labours, stepping closer still. A tantalising inch of space between your figure and his, though his vetiver and musk cologne makes it feel like far less. “Because… fuck, because there’s only one reason he felt the need to make a scene.”

You frown bemusedly. “There is?”

“Yeah.” A pause. “To make me look bad. In front of you.”

“You didn’t look bad to me, Rafe,” you say gently, voice quiet but firm. 

“Listen,” he murmurs urgently, looking over your softened features. “D’you know where you want to go to college?”

“Not yet,” you answer slowly, your nervous breath stilling. His eyes have fallen over your soft cheeks and skidded at your lips, lingering.

“You should come to UNC.” He exhales heavily and takes a long step back, as though doing so is tying up every ounce of his conviction. It is. The invisible string loosens. “That’s where I’ll be.”

Another pause. You say, frighteningly sure of yourself, “Knowing us, I probably will.”

And though this revelation doesn’t quite ring true, fate bestows upon you one more chance encounter before present day.

When you’re eighteen-years-old, Rafe Cameron tells you you’re the one.

You’re strolling along the beachfront at dusk, ruminating. An amaranth hue presses over your silhouette, darker carmine wine, softer pink pulling away.

As sunlight recedes, it takes any discernible features with it. Rafe knows this. He knows he shouldn’t recognise you as easily as he does.

But he’s breathing heavy by the time he’s caught up with you, anyway, a sheen of sweat lining his limbs, damp strands of ashen blonde kissing his forehead. His throat burns and his heaving lungs bleed, though it’s the ache in his cracking ribcage that really has him panicking.

He needs to know whether or not you’re coming to UNC. Kildare Island may be small, but the world beyond it is dangerously big.

“Rafe!” You exclaim in surprise, stumbling back as he doubles over. He gulps down several pockets of cool air before straightening.

“Y/n,” he greets slovenly, his gaze skating over your figure. Big mistake — you’re so beautiful it steals the newfound oxygen from his lungs. He swallows thickly. “Thank fuck.”

“Thank fuck?” You echo, raising your eyebrows appraisingly.

“It’s been a while,” Rafe says then, stepping closer without meaning to. You’re wearing a white singlet and raw-hem denim shorts, a taunting rectangle of bare waist between them. It glows in waning light, the column of your throat, too. He’s struck with the sudden urge to dip his head and bruise it blue.

You soften a little, something demure about it. “Has it?”

“Yeah.” His arms swings forward absently, forefinger brushing over the pulse point on your wrist. The fleeting skin-on-skin rockets through you like static. “Was starting to get worried.”

“Oh,” you say quietly, gaze dropping to his hand. “You shouldn’t, really. Knew you’d find me eventually.”

“And next year?” He asks, an urgent edge to his voice. “When you head to college? Am I gonna be able to find you as easily as I do now?"

You exhale softly, eyes moving back up to his. “I’m going to Northwestern, if that’s what you mean.”

Rafe’s stomach lurches. “Why?”

“Rafe.” You pause. You try to ignore the deep woe in your ribcage. “It’s only three years away.”

“That's a year more than usual,” Rafe returns impatiently, his self-control wearing thin. He reaches up and presses his rough palm against your cheek, the other squeezing the side of your waist, thumb swiping over bare skin.

Your breath hitches. “Rafe —”

“No, listen, I promise I’ll fuck off in a sec.” His eyes drop to your soft lips, a peach-scented gloss making it difficult to concentrate. Maybe he should stop making promises he can’t keep. “But I — shit, I have to say this in case things don’t work out like you think they will.”

You swallow down a still-beating heart, nodding slowly. “Okay.”

“We’ve been…” he falters, shaking his head, “…fuck, I don’t know, it doesn’t make any sense. It’s like the Universe knows something I don’t and I think that something is that you’re it.”

“It?” You echo abashedly, voice messy and fond, barely audible.

“It, the one, the girl I’m going to end up with,” he clarifies, exhaling heavily. “And I just… I need you to know that I wouldn’t mind that. Shit — I want that. So bad.”

Your pretty eyes widen at the revelation, poor heart stuttering. “Three years, Rafe Cameron.”

Rafe pulls away, like he said you would. A part of you wishes he wasn’t so good at following through. “Three years. Longer, if you need. I’ll be here. I’ll wait forever.”

—

Thankfully, your presence at the bonfire confirms the former. His gaze, more pupil than brilliant blue iris, moves over your pretty features, over your bare limbs and surprised expression. Glowing skin. Soft lips he’s wanted to taste for a while now.

The way he drinks your figure in, as though he’s a poor man starved, has your weak knees threatening to buckle underneath you, pulse whirring alive as it pulls you toward him.

You meet in the middle, the rest of the bonfire fading away. It’s only you and him, now, and that invisible string of fate.

“You know what I think everytime I see you?” He asks, his voice a quiet murmur, low and gravelly around the edges. It spills over you like the first pull of a warm beverage, his cedar-wood cologne encircling you, a body-heat warm embrace. 

You cock your head to one side, smiling your sweet, unabashed smile. It makes his heart sing. “What?”

“I think.” He steps closer, the tips of his sneakers making contact with the tips of yours. “Fucking hell, she’s prettier than she was the last time I saw her. As if that’s fucking possible.”

“Three years, Rafe Cameron,” you say softly, smiling wider.

He nods meaningfully, reaching up and tucking his hand underneath your jaw. His thumb swipes over your too-warm cheek, soft on rough in a way that makes your pulse jolt. “Think this is it, now?”

“I don’t plan on leaving the Banks,” you answer, raising your eyebrows. “I hear from Sarah that you don’t either.”

Rafe scoffs, more amused than exasperated. “Of course you’ve seen Sarah.”

“With Kiara.” His thumb slides over your bottom lip absentmindedly, exerting a gentle pressure. You lean into it without meaning to. “Who d’you think told me about tonight?”

“Of fucking course,” he murmurs, exhaling slowly. “Just another one of those coincidences, huh?”

You swallow slightly, and his gaze drops to the column of your throat, bonfire flames painting them a burnt ochre hue. Back up to your lips, soft and glossed over. It’s debilitating, how badly he wants to taste you right now. “Must be.”

He ducks his head in the beat that passes, a kissable inch of space between your lips and his. “This is stupid,” he breathes out, warm and liquor-heavy as it fans your features. Your lashes flutter. “We’ve barely had five conversations over the course of our lives.”

“What’s stupid?” You ask quietly, a little bashful. Rafe’s deep voice has this sweet, terrifying effect on your havoc-wreaked insides.

“How badly I want to skip all the getting to know you bullshit and just kiss you.”

Your breath hitches. “You don’t think you know me?”

“That’s the thing,” he murmurs urgently, his torso pressing into yours, now, a rough hand on your waist. “I — fuck, I shouldn’t, but I do.”

You lean in first. There’s a soft brush of lips on his before he’s taking over, kissing you hard, fond and messy as he attaches his mouth to yours. A teeth-scraping pressure. He’s peppermint and warm beer and sunshine twang, the essence of an Outer Banks summer, a sloven osculation that has you craving more.

When he pulls away, your lips are bruised and kiss-heckled, warm cheeks glowing in the scorching flame of the bonfire. The embers crackle in appreciation. 

“That's not stupid,” you breathe out after a beat, voice hushed. “So do I. Hard not to, you know? Feels like you’ve been in my life forever.”

“Doesn’t it?” Rafe grins this fond, messy grin, his thumb swiping over your saliva-glossed bottom lip. “Makes no fucking sense, but it’s like we’re connected by a tiny bit of thread.”

“Hm.” A pause. It’s pretty to think about, all the ways astral influence thrust the pair of you together. “You’re right. An invisible string tying you and me together.”

--

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RAFE CAMERON in S03E06 THE DARK FOREST Not really, Rafe. It could be one of a very few people.